


Estrangement

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2014, Roger plays his final Wimbledon, and Rafa sits with his team to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Estrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Thanks to both of my fantastic betas, best_of_five and jenniebellie.

Richard Gasquet wins Paris in 2010 with his boyfriend sitting in the box beside his coach, and that is the first time Roger thinks about it. He says nothing to Rafa, but it stays in his mind like a plan half formed. He waits.

And then, nearly four years later, the time comes.

 

“I’m going to win,” he says to Rafa. It is morning, and Rafa is just about to become fidgety and jump out of bed. Roger knows the signs. Instead, he stills at Roger’s words.

“Oh yes?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Roger. The sun is golden through the curtains, the room a muted glow of morning. English birds sing outside the window in English trees, and the London traffic is far away.

“You are lucky my knee is sore,” says Rafa. He props himself on one elbow, looking down at Roger’s face. “And yes, I think you gonna win.” He smiles.

“I wish your knee was okay,” says Roger.

Rafa shrugs. “Me too,” he says. “But it gonna get better for America.”

Roger runs the backs of his fingers over Rafa’s cheeks, runs his fingertips over his mouth. “Will you watch?” he asks quietly.

Rafa leans down and kisses him. “Of course,” he says. “I watch you from here, no? I gonna see you win.”

Roger half smiles. He feels his heart beat faster, feels himself on an edge, and he must fall either way. “Not from here,” he says. He threads his arms around Rafa’s body, holding him close. “From my box.”

Uncertainty flickers over Rafa’s face, that look he has when he isn’t sure he understands. “Player’s box?” he says, frowning.

“Yeah.” Roger trails his hands over Rafa’s skin, drawing him down against him on the bed.

Rafa looks away, his eyebrows contracted in thought. Roger nuzzles against him, waiting, listening, the silence of the room and their shared heat relaxing him, and he feels as if he is sinking into the mattress, into the pillows, half buried under Rafa’s solid weight.

Finally Rafa looks back at him, his eyes liquid and earnest. “Okay,” he says.

Roger smiles. It is as simple as that.

 

Roger has always been a fighter; you don’t get to the top if you don’t fight. But Rafa has taught him something more, a further resilience. Ever since 2008, the year of mono, he’s had to fight that bit harder, and in every match he thinks of Rafa’s grit, his determination. The way he plays every point as if it’s the last one he’ll ever play. And then, when it’s over, win or lose, he moves on.

This is how Roger will have to play today.

He is thirty three years old. Dimitrov is a kid, hungry, in his first Grand Slam final. They have never played before. Roger knows he has experience in his favour, but he can rely on nothing more. He is still fast, still the greatest player of all time, but young bodies are easier to control than older bodies, they bend more to the will. He will have to use every ounce of strength, every reserve, to win this final.

He walks on court in his customary blazer, and the sun shines down. A perfect English summer’s day. And over there, beside Mirka, sits Rafa. He is looking around Centre Court from this new angle; it is an unfamiliar one for him, especially on this day. Rafa has won the final on this court three times, now. Roger is looking for number seven. One more record equalled. One more Grand Slam to add to his total. One last victory.

He briefly wonders what the commentators are saying about Rafael Nadal sitting in his box, but pushes the thought from his mind. That’s for later.

Roger wins the first set. He knows that nerves are making Dimitrov tight, and he knows that soon the kid will get over them. He knows, even with one set under his belt, it will be harder from here on.

And it is. Dimitrov takes the second, and the third. In the changeover after the set, Roger can see Rafa shifting in his seat, his face set in an expression of stony determination, as if his will alone can win this for Roger. They catch each other’s eyes as Roger walks to his position. He sets his jaw. And he plays.

It’s not easy. There are no breaks in the fourth, and the tie breaker goes to 9-7, but at least he’s taken it to the decider. The rain stays away, and Roger is grateful; he needs to keep going, keep pushing, keep running. The kid is making him run, and ruefully he thinks that it’s a fair strategy against an old man.

And then, at 3-4 in the final set, he stops running. He starts to fly.

This is it, this is the zone he loves to hit. This is how the greatest of all time plays, and he feels as if he’s barely touching the grass. The crowd is nothing but a peripheral din; the ball is all he sees, and it’s an easy target. Roger can see exhaustion in the boy’s shoulders. He feels none at all in his own body, and he does not think of how he will feel later, when he comes down. He thinks only of each point, each game.

And he wins. Gloriously, impossibly, he wins.

 

He raises his arms and feels their voices on his skin, echoing deep in his chest, thousands of them cheering him. Already they’re rolling out the carpet and lowering the net. Roger does not go to his chair, but walks to the corner of the court, right beneath the players’ box. He does not climb up; it has never been his style. But he stands, looking up into the smiling, happy faces of his father and mother, of Mirka, of Tony, and of Rafa. His parents are calling down to him, calling his name. Mirka is taking a photo on her phone, and Tony is applauding. Rafa stands with his hands on the railing, and on his face is pure pride. Roger’s heart swells as they hold each other’s gazes for just a moment, just one moment shared between them and them alone, before he finally returns to his chair.

Dimitrov is gracious in his speech, but Roger barely listens. By the time it’s his turn to speak, he is calm, he is certain. This is it.

Sue Barker asks him how it feels to equal the record of seven Wimbledon titles, and he replies that it’s a dream come true; she asks what he thinks of Dimitrov, and he answers with the platitudes he has often used before. And then she asks about Rafa.

Roger glances up to the box. Rafa is sitting forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes cast downwards as if avoiding all the curious looks and all the cameras trained on him now. For a moment, Roger falters; and then he sees it, the smile, almost hidden, but there. Rafa glances up and catches his eye, gives him a barely perceptible nod.

“Yeah, well, you know, Rafa is injured, so obviously he can’t be playing today,” jokes Roger. Sue is trying to keep it light, to play along, but he can see the real question in her eyes. So he continues. “We’ve been together now for, what, six years, but this is the first time he’s got a chance to sit in the box, you know, instead of playing me.” He smiles, as if he’s said nothing unexpected.

“Together?” echoes Sue, confusion on her face. She looks like she’s waiting for a punchline.

“Yeah, you know, together. Rafa and me,” he says, shrugging.

At first there’s a hush, and even Sue can’t quite hide her shock. “Right,” she says, her television instincts kicking in while she desperately tries to regain control of her expression. “I suppose it’s right that he should be in your box, then.”

And then the sound comes. At first it’s a murmur, and then an applause, and then a cheer so loud it’s as if he’s won the tournament all over again. Roger looks up and around; all around Centre Court the crowd is on its feet, clapping, cheering and waving flags. He looks back to Rafa and grins.

Sue follows his gaze and back again, and she gets a glint in her eye. “Will you be bringing Rafa to the Champion’s Ball tonight?” she asks.

Roger is a little taken aback, but he laughs. “Sure,” he said. “I think he brought his tux.” It is strange, all of a sudden, to speak about this in public. He feels as if the ground has shifted a little beneath his feet. He looks back to Rafa, finds his face again, something to anchor him, ground him. Rafa’s eyes are fixed on him, as if holding him in place. The crowd are still cheering all around him.

He waits for the noise to die down before he continues. “And one other thing,” he says. “This is my last match. I retire today from tennis.” Again a hush, but this time, no burgeoning roar. Instead just an uncertain murmur. “I figure I should end while I’m winning, you know?” he says. “Today was the best one, I think, maybe even better than the first time, I don’t know. So I think this is the best memory to retire with. And I want to thank everyone here today – everyone in the crowd, my family, Mirka, Tony, and Rafa for that – and everyone here at Wimbledon. Thank you.”

This time Sue collects herself more quickly. He wonders if she was expecting this one. “Well, that’s a real shame for tennis, but you deserve a long and happy retirement. We wish you all the best with whatever you decide to do next,” she says. “And we hope we’ll see you back here in Wimbledon again.”

Roger laughs. “Of course,” he says. “This day next year, you know, when Rafa’s playing and I’m in the box. We’ll switch around.”

The applause then is so great, so overwhelming, that it’s obvious that the interview is over. And then, one last time, Roger holds the trophy in his hands as Wimbledon Champion.

He tries to remember every detail, tries to record it in his mind as he walks around the court, holding up the trophy and kissing it. Even as he tries, he knows he will fail; this moment will remain in his memories as a fragmented impression, a sense of the experience but not a perfect recollection. The cameras flash and the cheers continue, following his circuit. And so he tells himself to enjoy it, to take his time, this last time on Centre Court.

 

The cameras follow him inside to see his name already on the board of winners. Bjorn Borg is there, and John McEnroe, and there are more congratulations and banter and talk of his retirement for the cameras. McEnroe says something about Rafa, and Roger can’t place why, but he suddenly thinks that maybe the news that he and Rafa were together wasn’t exactly news to everybody. He wonders where they slipped up, where he might have seen them. He doesn’t register the net photos from their four epic Wimbledon finals on the opposite wall.

For years he’s been waiting for this, and yet he has to push down the wave of anxiety that comes with all these eyes around him, behind them all, a question. He’ll have a lot to explain at his presser.

He finally makes it back through a gauntlet of congratulations to the dressing room. Rafa is waiting inside, along with his parents and Mirka and Tony. He guesses Dimitrov is already gone.

They have champagne ready, and Roger takes a glass. His father toasts him in English so that Rafa is not excluded, and Roger feels a rush of affection for these people, his family, who had never questioned him, not once, when he told them about this thing. This thing that began six years ago – years after he and Mirka had ceased to be anything but the best of friends – that had now become this new thing. Emotions swirl in his mind, and he feels slightly detached, as if he is outside himself, watching; the elation of winning, followed by the slow dawning of the reality that this is it, this is when everything changes. He feels Rafa’s hand on the small of his back and turns to him, clinking their glasses together, and drinking to everything new.

They are loud in the locker room, loud and cheerful, until the champagne is drunk and it’s time for Roger to get changed and ready for his presser. His parents, Mirka, Tony and Rafa all go to leave, but he holds Rafa back. “Wait,” he says quietly, his hand on Rafa’s arm.

Rafa nods. Mirka glances back as she leaves, and Roger sees the warm look in her eyes. The look she always had for him when he needed it. She has always had faith in him.

Then they are alone. “I…” begins Roger, but he doesn’t know how to continue.

Rafa puts his arms around him, and holds him close. “You play unbelievable tennis today, Rogi,” he says. He says it quietly, intimately, even though there is no one to overhear. “Amazing match. And afterwards.” He smiles. “So calm. Always with calm.”

Roger laughs, and touches his forehead to Rafa’s. “I wasn’t calm,” he says, biting his lip. “It was so strange, Rafa. This will be so strange, you know?”

Rafa nods. “Yeah,” he says. He shrugs. “Will be different. For both of us.”

“You’ll have to answer questions, too,” says Roger.

“Maybe in Canada this gonna be old news, no?”

“You’ll never be old news, Rafa, not as long as you’re on the tour.” He runs his hands over Rafa’s arms, down along his back. “You’re too interesting. And now, more interesting.” He gives a breath of a laugh.

“Was a big decision,” says Rafa. He looks serious, as if he’s only just begun to assess what they’ve done. “But you and me, we gonna answer questions, we tell them the truth. Is easy. Anyway, you retiring, that’s important news too, no? They gonna ask you a lot about that, I think.”

Roger sighs. “Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know which they’ll think is more important.”

“Tell them, you still gonna be on the tour, even though retired. You gonna be my—” he hesitates, making sure of the word before he says it. “You gonna be my WAG.”

Roger’s eyes widen. Suddenly Rafa’s face creases into laughter, and after a silent moment, Roger laughs with him. “No way!” he says. “No one is ever going to call me that, you know. They better not.”

Rafa is still grinning. “Is true,” he says. His eyes are sparkling.

Roger bites him playfully on the shoulder, curling into him. “Maybe it is,” he says. Rafa wraps his arms around him. He wishes that he could skip the press room and take Rafa straight back to the hotel, and stay with him like this until this sense of strangeness passes. But he can’t.

“I better go shower,” he says. “I have all those questions to answer.”

Rafa kisses him softly. “Go,” he says. “I gonna wait with your family, okay? Near the monitors. I watch.”

Roger nods. “See you later,” he says. Rafa disentangles himself and leaves, and Roger is alone.

But not, he realises. Now that he has done this, no one will ever think of just Roger Federer again. It will always be the two of them, now, even more than it ever was before. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. Rivals. Lovers.

He rolls his eyes. Too epic, he thinks. Fine for newspaper headlines, but he knows the way Rafa always makes enough toast for two, the way he always puts their toothbrushes into the same glass in the bathroom, the way he nuzzles into Roger’s shoulder in the early light of the morning. These things aren’t epic. They are just Rafa and Roger.

He smiles, and then peels off his shirt to get ready to shower.

 

The first thing that hits him when he walks into the press room is the smell of stale air. Then he sees why. The room is jammed. He can’t guess how many people, exactly. Perhaps two hundred, perhaps more. The room is palpably tense. He wishes once more that he could skip this part.

The questions are predictable, but he must answer them nevertheless. Yes, six years ago. At the Olympics in Beijing. No, he had not planned to announce it at his retirement; with Rafa’s injury, it just worked out that way. Yes, of course Rafa was okay with it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come today. Yes, Roger planned to travel on the tour with Rafa.

“As a WAG?” calls someone, tentatively, to nervous laughter.

Roger stares, finds the face in the crowd. The room falls silent under his gaze. He can’t hold it for long, though, this menace in his eyes, and he hides his face under the brim of his hat as he laughs. He clears his throat. “Is there a word for the male version of WAGs?” he asks. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask Richie.”

The laughter throughout the room this time is more genuine, and the joke seems to do the trick. They stop asking about Rafa, and return to tennis, the match against Dimitrov, and his retirement.

Roger feels the tension that had built up coming into this room drain away. This is his last one, he thinks, until he plays some exhibition match, and that won’t be for a while. He has no intention of playing the Seniors Tour. So this is the last real one. He lounges in his chair with his easy elegance and he charms the room, as he knows he can. He is the greatest of all time, after all.

 

It’s late by the time they leave the Club. Roger is staying in the Savoy, so at least the Champions’ Ball is as close as an elevator ride, once it begins. Roger is laying out his tuxedo on the bed when Rafa comes out of the shower.

“You gonna get changed already, Rogi?” Roger glances at him, and then turns fully to look. He has a towel around his waist and his skin is still wet. The gentle light of the room makes him look almost golden. Roger’s body thrums at the tone of his voice.

“Rafa,” he says, half impatiently, half suddenly aroused. “We can’t, it’s less than an hour till the ball.”

Rafa leans against the wall, his hips canted forwards, and if Roger didn’t know him he’d almost think the pose was accidental. “You are the Champion, no?” says Rafa, his voice still low and suggestive. “It’s okay if the Champion is late, I think.”

Roger tears his eyes away and looks hard at the bedside clock, as if by staring at it he can coax more time from the universe. He sighs, exasperated, and considers at his tux lying on the bed. It’s still on the hanger. Easy to move. He picks it up and hangs it on the handle of the wardrobe and turns to Rafa. Rafa is smiling gently, his eyes dark and hungry and full of desire. Roger feels his whole body respond, suddenly crying out for Rafa’s touch. He wonders how it’s possible to still be so attracted to someone after six years. He and Mirka didn’t make it that far, so he has nothing to compare it to.

Rafa comes towards him, covering the space between them in three long strides, dropping his towel to the floor before tumbling Roger backwards onto the bed. Rafa kisses him hungrily, no gentle preamble, but all his impatience focused entirely on Roger. Roger loves the attention, craves it. When Rafa does something, he does it completely, whether it is tennis or sex, and Roger revels in his single-minded determination.

Rafa has moved to his neck. At a certain point, the pleasure is almost too intense, and he feels it shoot through his body right down to his groin. He lifts his hips against Rafa’s already hard cock, and he feels Rafa gasp against his neck. Rafa pulls back and pulls off Roger’s shirt. He flings it over his shoulder, before tackling his belt and pants, and Roger finds himself naked and pressed against Rafa’s skin. They move together, their cocks hard between them. Roger feels his muscles relax, become liquid under Rafa’s hands and mouth, as he kisses down Roger’s chest and threads their fingers together.

“Rafa,” says Roger, his voice thick and breathless. Rafa murmurs in response. “Rafa, fuck me, okay?” says Roger. “I want— I want that.”

Rafa raises his eyes. “Will take longer,” he says. “Have to shower again.”

Roger smiles sardonically. “Like you said,” he says. “I am the Champion. I can be late, right?”

Rafa grins and pushes himself up on his arms. “Okay,” he says. “I get the stuff.”

Roger hears him unzipping the side pocket of his suitcase. They don’t keep the lube in the bedside drawer ever since the time in New York they forgot and left it there, and spent the next three months worrying about being outed. They won’t have to worry about that any more.

Rafa crawls up his body, kissing his way from knee to thigh, and taking Roger’s cock in his mouth and sucking, swirling his tongue around the head. Roger gasps. Rafa pulls back.

“Turn over,” he says. He punctuates it with another lazy lick of Roger’s cock. “Easier for you. Tired after the match, no?”

Roger smiles, wide and lazy. “I love you,” he says, shifting onto his stomach. “You know that?”

Rafa mouths at one ass cheek. “I know,” he says. Roger can hear the smile in his voice. He feels Rafa’s breath hot against his skin, one exhalation, two, and pushes back against him.

“Come on,” says Roger, looking back. “We’re on the clock here, you know?” He is watching Rafa over his shoulder. There is something in his eyes, something incongruous down there at the curve of his ass. Something that should be closer. Rafa is touching his skin so delicately, so gently, and Roger is overcome by the sense that he is too far away. “Come up here,” he says. His voice is strained, maybe a little strangled.

Rafa does. He lays himself along the full length of Roger’s body, kissing over Roger’s cheek and capturing his mouth. He draws back and flips open the lube, coating the fingers of his right hand and sliding them between the cheeks of Roger’s ass. Roger gasps. Rafa’s mouth is by his ear, and his breath is coming short and fast. He is peppering Roger’s shoulder with kisses. Roger can feel his cock hot and hard against him, and his hips are moving in time with his finger which is working in and out of Roger in a steady rhythm. He feels Rafa carefully add a second, and Roger is already thrusting back up against him. His body is tired, now, and aching in places, but Rafa is easing him out, and he’s feeling utterly languorous and relaxed.

Rafa slides his fingers out of Roger, and he can hear, in his daze, the lube bottle snapping open and closed again. Rafa lifts Roger’s hips a little as he lines himself up and begins to push in. Roger holds his breath as Rafa slides in. He loves this first push, this feeling of opening himself up and accommodating Rafa inside his body. Rafa buries himself deep and then lets himself curl over Roger’s back, beginning to slowly work his hips in and out, finding the angle that will reduce Roger to nothing but gasping breath and smouldering pleasure.

Rafa buries his face in the back of Roger’s neck, mouthing at his skin as he thrusts. Roger has pushed the pillows off the bed, and one side of his face is flat against the sheets, his hands on either side twisting them in his fists. His own cock is pushed against the mattress with every thrust. Rafa is making small noises against his back, murmuring words in Mallorquín, and Roger knows enough that he might understand them if he could think, but Rafa is angling just right, and Roger can feel his orgasm build like heat low down in his groin and he can’t think of anything else. He can hear himself moaning now, his voice catching on every exhale.

Rafa is fucking him hard. Roger pulls one of his legs towards his chest, giving him better access, and then cries out when Rafa hits his sweet spot with all of the force of his hips. Again and again, and it’s too much. “Oh, Rafa,” he tries to say, though his mouth can barely form the words.

He is coming hard, his cock pulsing against the mattress and his own stomach, and he feels Rafa’s thrusts more jerky now as he tightens around him. He slams home and cries out, and Roger can feel the throbbing of Rafa’s orgasm inside him as he rides out his own. Rafa’s breath is coming in uneven gasps. Finally, they both collapse in a boneless tangle of limbs.

Their bodies are slick with sweat, and the thick smell of sex is in the air. They lie together, Rafa still mostly on top of Roger, until their breath calms and evens out. Then Rafa slides to one side, one leg still intertwined with Roger’s, and they lie face to face.

“Are we late yet?” Rafa asks.

Roger smiles slowly, his eyelids heavy. “Probably,” he says. “Mirka will call soon.”

Rafa pulls him closer. “Probably best if we shower together,” he says, very seriously. “Save time, no? Very good plan.”

“Hmm,” says Roger, shifting closer to Rafa on the bed. He brushes his lips against Rafa’s mouth. “Yes, a very good plan.”

Rafa smiles lazily. “Sí,” he says. He slides off the bed, pulling Roger with him. “Vamos, shower.”

Roger stretches and pushes himself off the bed. He can feel the burn from fucking, but he knows it will ease soon. He pads heavily after Rafa into the bathroom.

 

They do arrive a little late to the Champions’ Ball, and Roger is aware that he looks thoroughly post-coital. He sees people glance knowingly at their wet hair as he and Rafa make their way to the head table. He grins to himself. Rafa takes his hand as they walk.

It still feels strange to be so public, but as he takes his place at the top of the room, Roger feels that it is no longer he who is out of joint. Rafa is a solid, warm presence beside him, their knees pressed together under the table. The world has changed, he thinks, and this is his world, the only one he cares about, side by side with Rafael Nadal.


End file.
